The Sudden Stop at the End
by chrissie0707
Summary: Continuation for a tag for 5X10 "Abandon All Hope." It's a surprising enough move - as much of a move as it is - and he gets so far as his fingertips brushing the cool metal of the Impala when the fist twists in the collar of his shirt, giving Dean a yank backward so quick and severe his boots stutter and skip off of the pavement. Language, whump, and a gooey angsty center.


_This is a companion piece to another story of mine, "It's Not the Fall that Kills You," which is Bobby's POV after Abandon All Hope. But this can be read on its own._

* * *

 _The Sudden Stop at the End_

* * *

The flames in the fireplace snap and crackle as they eat up the photograph, its edges curling, bubbling and blackening as it's consumed. For a long moment the insatiable chomping of the fire is the only sound in the library.

A deceptive kind of quiet, though, with much more going on beneath the surface, as thoughts and feelings in Dean's head slam together with seemingly purposeful aggression, picking up speed until they've created a roiling cyclone of indistinguishable turmoil that's screaming, cursing and beating at him with every shallow, careful breath he dares to take.

It's true what they say: when one thing, one sense or ability is taken from you, the others hurry to step in and pick up the slack. Dean hasn't said anything, and Sam hasn't said anything, but still Bobby shifts uncomfortably in his wheelchair, tapping his fingertips against the arm and drawing their attention. "Well," he says slowly, "spit it out."

"They deserve…" Dean begins, via a regrettable response reflex to an order from a father figure, but the words catch in his throat and reverberate through his pounding skull. He takes a moment to work through it, to gather the necessary strength to say what needs said.

But the pause, the choke of emotion, draws a strange look from his little brother, as Dean can't seem to keep up the façade he needs to, not for this moment. The truth of what's transpired is rotting him from the inside out and he needs very badly to purge it from his system. "They deserved a lot better," he forces out. "This was a fight we started, and we shouldn't have ever brought them into this." He says _we,_ but he hardly ever means _we._

Bobby nods solemnly, gaze stuck to the ravenous fire devouring the last good memory Dean thinks he's ever going to be allowed. "I shoulda been there."

"Not your fault, Bobby," Sam speaks up, but without much feeling. Numb, dull and entirely relatable.

"Just sayin' it shouldn't have been them."

 _You're damn right about that, Bobby. You are goddamn right._ Dean was ready to make that sacrifice, to be the first pawn shot forward to draw away the queen, as it were. It was supposed to be _him_ , if anyone. If this fool plan didn't work, if Lucifer walked out of Carthage then it was supposed to be because Dean died trying.

He certainly gave it a valiant effort, though, didn't he? Dying?

Strange how Dean didn't feel the backhanded strike that sent him flying, but he sure felt the tree. A surprising moment of weightlessness before he hit that wide trunk so hard he'd thought for sure he'd broken in half. A painful _whoosh_ of precious air tripping over itself in its haste to exit his lungs, a _crack_ of rib bone felt beneath the fireworks show blasting off behind his eyes and can feel again just standing here. And then a merciful, however frightening, curtain of falling black he hadn't been sure he was going to see rise again for the second act.

Dean chews his lip for a moment, struck by the hazy thought of what he may have missed, and by the stubborn memory of what he hadn't. These are dangerous thoughts and a treacherous road to travel, and he would almost rather he'd been born with the capability and willpower to clamp down against the inevitable spill of words. But instead he'd inherited fight, and aggression, and one hell of a stubborn streak. He falls back a step, catches Sam looming dark and contemplative in his periphery, and narrows his own eyes, crosses his arms and asks, "What'd he say to you?"

"Hmm? When?" Sam's pretty good at playing dumb, Dean will give him that. But Sam's anything but, and _pretty good_ ain't gonna cut it, not today. Not with this.

"When do you _think_ , Sam?" Dean snaps, feeling his right hand curl into a fist where it's pressed against his chest. "When I was taking my catnap." He might have already slugged his brother if there hadn't been more than enough violence done to their side for one day. "What'd Lucifer say to you?"

Sam keeps the act going, sighs a bit too deliberately and crams his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He raises his shoulders and spares a wide-eyed glance down at Bobby. "Nothing much. Standard villain monologuing only."

He's lying, and horribly, at that. Dean jerks away, feeling the phantom physical sting of the lie and the very real stab of that rib fracture, and rubs the back of his head. "I need to get some air."

Sam cocks his head, clearly hiding something but too smart not to know when he's caught and too good a brother to step aside and let Dean walk out of the door. The exact reasons they'll always be doomed to repeat this song and dance. "Dean…"

"Dammit," Dean seethes through clenched teeth, remembering how they got here at Bobby's: the sudden, bone-rattling drop against solid hardwood via angel zapping. "Cas!" he shouts at the ceiling, to the spackled, painted crack Sam had put there when Meg was manning the controls. The demon, but the girl's ghost had once done some impressive cracking herself in this house. "You'd better get your ass back down here right now, or so help me – "

The sound is like an engaging vacuum cleaner, not that Dean has a lot of experience with those outside of stepping around them in motel hallways; like the switch toggling on and quickly off again. And if you're waiting for it, if you know it's coming, the faintest flutter of oversized wings you won't actually catch sight of.

A cool, unnatural wind whips up in the library, ruffling Sam's hair and rustling loose papers from the desktop as Castiel appears behind them.

Dean whirls on the angel immediately, like Cas doesn't probably have smiting powers, and like he himself isn't a puny human in comparison. "Where's my fucking car?" he demands, recognizing the rare lethal tones his own voice is hitting.

Rare lethal and _effectual_ tones, as Castiel actually shrinks back a step. "I didn't want to risk it," he says, low and rough as ever he speaks, a handful of gravel dropped into a garbage disposal. The timbre isn't the vessel, it's just typical broody Cas. "Brought you straight back here."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Great. Now you get to beam me right the hell back to Carthage so I can get my damn car."

"I don't think – "

"I didn't ask what you think, Cas. Do it." The step forward Dean takes isn't entirely voluntary. Reflex and instinct propel him forward, feeling a threat he isn't even sure is true or valid or _present_. But he goes with it, because it usually gets him results.

Castiel sighs. "I'll scout ahead, make sure Lucifer has moved on."

Dean levels a glare at the angel. "Trust me. He's moved on."

"How do you – "

"You not hearing what we're hearing, Cas?" Dean throws an arm toward the TV set in the corner beyond Bobby's wide desk, now dark and silent but recently transmitting grainy footage of a devastated landscape while spouting an equally devastating news report. "Devil's had his fun. He's moved on by now."

Castiel exhales, probably annoyed by the perpetually argumentative humans he's become saddled with but Dean doesn't care very much. He's not _asking_ Cas; he's telling him. It takes a moment, but the angel reluctantly nods.

Dean is in motion immediately, reaching down for his jacket from where he'd left it draped against the back of a squat wooden chair along the wall. His bruised head roars its protest of the change in altitude as his fingers brush the fabric where it's gone stiff with dried blood.

Jo's blood.

Dean jerks away, letting the garment drop back to the seat of the chair and it slides across the flat surface and falls to the floor, kicking up a small cloud of dust from the unkempt hardwood. He swallows, can't cover the reaction and doesn't care to explain it. "Back in about eight hours," he says roughly, not even granting his brother or Bobby the courtesy of eye contact.

He doesn't at all have it in him to argue with them about this, or talk even one of them into letting him go. They're more than welcome to try to stop him, but he knows they won't.

"Dean." But Sam doesn't ever seem to get the memo about shutting the hell up, and Dean should have seen this coming. "You're not…let me go with you."

Or maybe he _does_ know better, but this noble play still won't get him what he wants. Dean grabs the jacket from a heap on the dusty floorboards, pats down the pockets until he locates the Impala's keys. "I got it."

"Dean."

This time he ignores his brother completely, bypasses the middle man and raises his gaze to meet Bobby's eyes. The dark, narrowed eyes of a man who HAS to understand Dean's desire for solitude, for this chance to take some time to lock everything weak deep inside and do the job that needs done in the meantime.

He does, and he relents with a sigh. "Don't you go doin' somethin' stupid. You hear?"

Sam shoots Bobby a look, like the man's overstepping, or, overwheeling, his bounds.

Dean jerkily nods his thanks. "Try not to start any more apocalypses while I'm gone." He can't help it, but didn't honestly put up much of a fight against the words. He turns to Cas but can feel Sammy's eyes burning hurt, angry holes into the side of his head. "Beam me up, Scotty."

Cas rolls his eyes and brings his arm up to grip Dean's shoulder.

He never looks back at Sam, and that thought becomes stuck in Dean's already abused and overworked mind as contact is made and Bobby's dark library is torn from view without ceremony, the familiar homey sight of the farmhouse giving way to a brighter, overcast view of an utterly wrecked city street.

Feeling equally as wrecked, Dean blinks hard and staggers out of the angel's grasp. He doesn't think there's a square inch of his body that doesn't ache but the hurt inside goes deeper than split flesh or fractured bone. A pain that will take longer in healing, provided it ever does.

As disrespectful of personal space as he ever is, Castiel steps closer and Dean moves to shove him away immediately, but only ends up falling farther back himself than he succeeds in knocking the angel off-balance.

"Stop _saving_ me, Cas," Dean growls as he straightens, to compensate. "If you're not going to save…stop." He waves an angry hand in front of him. "Just _stop._ "

Castiel only stares, his expression that seemingly always-present mix of confusion and aggravation he carries around the Winchesters, because he can't understand _human_ and _pain_ and _loss_. He doesn't understand that Dean _wants_ to hurt. That he deserves it.

Dean drags a hand down his face and steps away from the angel, spots the shape of the Impala where he'd left her along the curb, a little ways down the street. "Car's right there," he says, throwing a point in her direction for good measure, then brings his hand up in some half-assed wave. He doesn't look back at Castiel, just starts off toward his girl. "Thanks for the lift." Spoken almost as an afterthought, because he feels the fiery desire to fight, even if he has to resort to words to do so.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention, and he can tell Cas is still there behind him, cheap trench coat billowing in the breeze that's whipped up, and glaring daggers at the back of Dean's head.

 _Do it,_ Dean thinks. Begs.

Pleads.

Instead, his ears catch the sound of the invisible vacuum engaging once more, the signal of an angelic takeoff. He's alone.

Sometimes he wants to be called on his bullshit, but mostly, Dean's just really good at making people leave. Apparently that extends to angels, as well.

The street is empty, deserted, lined with shattered glass and scraps of paper that skitter across the blacktop. The entire town is dead, and the scene is eerily reminiscent of the croat-infested future Zachariah had flung him into weeks ago. Everywhere Dean goes, he's faced with disaster and surrounded by failure. Plagued by the knowledge of what he could have, _should_ have, done differently.

Dean moves slowly along the cracked pavement, sticking to the middle of the street. It leaves him somewhat vulnerable, out in the open, but affords him the best view of the entire road. He's uneasy, and his fingers itch for the comfort of the grip of his .45 between them, but he'd wanted so badly to be AWAY that he hadn't even grabbed the pistol to take along. He knows he's alone here, but can't keep training and instinct at bay, and his eyes fall into a constant sweep of the storefronts on either side of the street.

His gaze lands on a thick, rust-colored drip along the concrete of the sidewalk and he crashes to his knees, like they're simply taken out from under him without warning. It's some combination of exhaustion, grief and gravity that drag him down, but he doesn't exactly pause to put a label to it.

 _If you're not going to save the people who deserve it, then stop saving_ me _._

Dean had been hit hard but unfortunately not hard enough to properly concuss and rob him of the memories of the day. Plenty of days and events have become hazy, questionable blurs over the years, but not this one. These things will stay with him. The overpowering stink of sulfur on the slick fur of the Hellhound that took him to the ground. The choking scent of Jo's blood, sticking to him, drying on him, staying with him. The unspoken questions that passed between them as they'd said goodbye, never to be answered.

Dean's eyes are drawn to the storefront of the hardware store, the blackened, blown-out windows of the Harvelles' last stand. Water drips from exposed piping dislodged in the blast, and the sidewalk out front is littered with an array of warped, charred nails and bolts. The sight of it and the knowledge of what may be buried within the wreckage sucks the oxygen right out of him, leaving him feeling cold and hollow and hard.

They followed him, trusted him, and he got them killed, too.

And for what purpose? To what end?

Dean had said it himself: the only thing that matters is keeping Sam out of Lucifer's grasp. The rest of them are just game pieces pointlessly shifting on the board.

Expendable.

Devil's in the wind now, lining up the dominoes into the sick, twisted design of his choosing. And they're just left to sit on their hands and wait for the first one to fall.

The sun dips out of sight below the still-smoking roofline to the west, and Dean hasn't moved an iota from the spot where he'd dropped.

He hears footsteps behind him and notes the approaching gait as purposeful, but all the same cautious. He pops up off of one knee and whirls in some kind of half-crouch, finds himself facing a wide-eyed trooper who stops in his tracks at a distance Dean would prefer he stay. He and his starchy blue shirt and overly-brimmed hat.

"You shouldn't be here, sir," the trooper says, with some small air of authority and a hand hovering over the holster on his hip. "There's a state of emergency."

Dean swallows uneasily. He's not other people, and he's not fooled for one damn second. There's no question the man is possessed, some low level demon left behind to pick off stragglers or, hell, maybe just waiting for him. They had to have known he'd come back for his baby.

"Yeah, no, I know," he stalls. Even _he_ can admit he hadn't been thinking clearly when he'd jetted off on Angel Airways, and he's as good as naked but for the car keys and one short knife in his right boot, but it's not the demon-killing blade. He left it all behind. The Colt, Ruby's knife, shit, a clip of standard rounds in his 1911. He's got nothing, not even his damn cell phone. "I just had to…" In his battered, weary state, even excuses evade him.

Still crouching in the street, Dean's eyes dart manically about, searching out any kind of feasible weapon or safe haven. The Impala isn't entirely out of the question, parked like a godsend no more than three hundred feet away, but behind the demon.

His hand grazes the bulge of the key ring in the pocket of his jeans, and Dean tries to convince himself he's got exactly enough left in the tank to make it to the car.

The demon smirks, giving up the charade rather quickly as he takes note of Dean's painfully obvious unease. He looks over his shoulder at the Chevy and back at Dean. "You're a mite predictable, Winchester." He squares his shoulders, widens his stance. Hanging loosely at his side, his right hand completely bypasses the loaded weapon strapped to his hip as it flexes into a fist, the sharp _crack_ of thick knuckles audible on the otherwise silent street. "And you're the only thing that stands in his way."

 _Door number two it is, then._ "Yeah?" Dean pushes up from the pavement and slowly straightens. "Do it, then."

He can talk tough and talk forever, can go back and forth and back again slinging shit with this demon, but demons don't typically want to _talk,_ and Dean's long since tapped the adrenaline keg. Struck upside the head by the fucking _devil_ , but it was that damn tree that took the top off of his game. And that was a while ago. He's shaky on his feet already, exhausted and fading. Playing wounded, with his body eagerly betraying him.

His best new demon pal hasn't made any sort of move yet, but there's a glint in those suddenly onyx eyes that unequivocally states that the time for deliberating this escape plan is winding down.

Dean rolls his shoulders, smirks, then does something he hardly ever sees fit to resort to: he fucking _runs._

It's a surprising enough move – as much of a move as it is – and he gets so far as his fingertips brushing the cool metal of the Impala when the fist twists in the collar of his shirt, giving Dean a yank backward so quick and severe his boots stutter and skip off of the pavement.

So maybe all of that demonic telekinetic muscle flexing and flinging bullshit is only necessary when the intended target has managed to secure a spot beyond the physical grasp of a stolen host.

Or maybe this is just more fun.

Dean slams hard and painfully to the ground on his side; knee, hip, ribs, shoulder and head one at a time singing their displeasure with this sudden, vicious transition to horizontal, like hitting every bar on a xylophone.

 _Son of a BITCH._ He moves to push himself up, the shadow of the demon falling over him as he makes it too slowly to his hands and knees.

"Down but not out, huh? Let's see what we can do about that."

A kick to the face leaves Dean's ears ringing and his mouth tasting like warm pennies. His jaw clicks and aches when he works it open, and he spits a string of blood to the blacktop to match what was left behind by his friends. He doesn't get the chance to push himself to his feet before he's ripped violently backwards and the back of his head cracks the windshield, literally, as he thuds painfully onto the hood of the Impala.

So at least he made it to the car.

Dean tries to move but can't seem to move much. Pinned in place, spine seemingly fused to the hood, his fingers scrabble and squeak uselessly against the smooth metal. He raises his head as far as he can manage, blinks blood from his eye as it runs warm and thick from the reopened wound at his left temple.

The son of a bitch meets his gaze and drags a nightstick from its spot on his belt.

Dean's heart rate quickens, breaths coming tight and fast. He roughly swallows the instinct to say, _"don't,"_ but the stick's not for him, and _fuck_ if that asshole isn't just grinning ear to ear as he steps forward and smashes his baby's headlights to pieces. He kicks out ineffectually as the demon crosses in front of the car, and for his effort takes a swipe of the stick across his ankle that sends his head snapping back once more against the glass.

The demon drops the stick at the same moment Dean's released from the invisible hold because, just as he'd thought, there must not be enough fun in beating the shit out of him when he can't at least pretend to defend himself. He rolls right off of the hood onto the pavement amongst the shards of the light covering, spits another mouthful of blood to the ground as he pushes up on shaky arms and works himself up to standing.

He's flying again before he makes it there, and he's really going to have to talk to their travel agent about the quality of these trips he's been booking lately. The incoherency of the thought strikes Dean at about the same time the stainless steel doorframe of the hardware store does. Both are cause for concern, but the impact with the building takes precedence as he crumbles to the sidewalk in a groaning, aching heap of sluggishly shifting limbs.

It takes a fair amount of effort but he rolls, makes it onto his back. The sky swirls beyond a gaping, blackened hole in the overhang, clouds executing some seriously nauseating spins while Dean struggles to catch his breath and suppress the renewed raging of his injured rib – likely _ribs_ , now _–_ and the fresh pain shouting out from a half-dozen other places throughout his body. His lungs make the independent decision to reject the hot, thick air they're being subjected to pulling in, and he gags, coughing harshly.

Dean raises his head from the concrete and blinks roughly to clear his vision, realizing with a startle where he's landed, that he's breathing in a truly unwelcome mix of gas, char, failure and loss, and the faintest whiff of sulfur as the demon saunters casually toward him.

He attempts to heave himself up, hand reaching for the knife still secured in his boot, because it might not kill the son of a bitch but it's at least _something_ , but the motion is halted by a hand clamped around his throat, the grip applying the right amount of pressure to allow Dean just enough air to stay conscious, but not enough to do much else.

"Gotta say," the demon states, mouth twisted up in an amused snarl as he studies the sight of the hardware store just behind Dean. "I am sorry that I missed the show." His attention shifts with a jerk as he drags the knife from Dean's boot, leaving a careless slice along his calf, and tosses it aside with a clatter. "So, was it the girl then?"

Dean lunges forward like he's been shot from a cannon, a choked, wordless roar ripped from his throat as he reaches for the demon.

Lower level piece of shit, definitely. They were really scraping the bottom of the barrel for the one to be left behind. Thinking he'd be easy pickings, thinking the fight in Dean would be gone, or at the very least, that this asshole could handle what was left.

Wrong.

And even Dean hadn't known it.

He straddles the demon on the sidewalk and the thing inside the trooper's still laughing even as Dean gains the upper hand, but the laughter cuts quickly enough to gasps and thick gurgling, and Dean pops at least one finger against its cheekbone, punching viciously downward with both fists.

When it stops moving beneath him, Dean pushes off of the ground and uses the momentum to make it all the way to his feet, eyes moving instantly back into that patterned sweep of the immediate area. Wrapping his left arm around his middle, he limps further into the store, stretches to grab the end of one of those loose, hanging pipes he'd spotted before. He yanks a length free and spins, clocking the demon across the head with a satisfying _bong_ of metal on bone right as the son of bitch is lurching toward him.

Dean is on the offensive now, and he doesn't stop moving; he rotates the pipe in his hand and yells as he rushes the son of a bitch, using every last ounce of physical fight and energy clinging to his bones to jam the dripping, jagged end through cotton, flesh, muscle and everything in between, pinning the demon to the wall just to the right of the door.

Never once does Dean allow his eyes to slide to the spot where they'd died. Where they'd individually sacrificed just so he could fail.

When he's satisfied that the asshole ain't moving again, Dean staggers back, dropping his hands to his knees and somehow keeping himself from going all the way to the floor, gaze trained on the agonized, screaming demon speared to the wall.

"Hey, man," Dean rasps, and it feels like fire crawling up his throat. He straightens with a wince and his left arm once more pressed tightly to his midsection in an attempt to stabilize…maybe everything. "What goes around comes around." Finishes on a cough, and leaves even more blood behind in this place.

It's good enough to give him the time to get the hell out of Dodge, but he'd rather send this piece of shit straight back to Hell if he can manage it.

Dean opens his mouth, face screwed up in more concentration than should be necessary as he struggles to recall the opening lines of any exorcism he's ever learned. A noble thought, but a futile effort, as the demon makes the decision to cut out before he gets the chance to drop a single word of belatedly remembered Latin. He's forced to stand by and helplessly watch the thick black smoke swirl and rush upward, funneling through a hole blown through the ceiling to dissipate among the day's dense cloud cover.

"Help…me."

Dean jumps and lowers his eyes, appalled to see fresh bubbling from the lips of the fully-human and dying _man_ impaled against the wall.

" _Please_."

Wide-eyed, Dean takes a step back and shakes his head hopelessly. "I…" He's got nothing. Nothing left to give, and nothing left to offer.

The man chokes on one last agonizing gurgle of breath drawn in, and his head droops forward silently on what should be the matching exhale, a line of dark blood spilling to connect his mouth and the grimy floor.

Dean averts his eyes, dragging in a few harsh, painful breaths of his own. Glass shards from the shattered storefront windows _pop_ under his boots as he turns, and he throws a hand up against the doorframe to maintain some semblance of balance on the way out.

The walk back to the car might be the longest of his life, though Dean trips only twice over his own slow-moving feet and hits the deck just one time, dropping to a knee and jarring more than he can properly appreciate in his exhausted state. The cracked windshield doesn't even register until he's settled behind the wheel, working up the energy to twist the key in the ignition. Then, for some reason, the sight of splintered, caved-in glass draws a choked, high-pitched bark of laughter from him, because she was maybe the one thing he had left intact.

It's a lengthy drive that Dean has no business making, and the lines start to blur before he's even really out of town. He likely, probably, _definitely_ spends the next several silent hours blowing through stop signs and red lights, leaves horns blaring and fellow drivers cursing in his wake.

But Dean pushes the car and himself to put Carthage, loss and ruin as far behind him as possible and doesn't dare stop, because he doesn't know that he'd be able to get going again if he did.

* * *

It might be telling that he cares more about the damage done to the Impala than that done to himself, but Dean doesn't realize that he hadn't thought of what to tell Sam and Bobby about the state of the car until he drags open the front door with what could very well be the last bit of energy he's got in his bones, only to find the older hunter parked there in the foyer like he was waiting for him.

Bobby doesn't speak, but his wide eyes shout all of the questions he wants to ask.

Dean had cleaned himself up pretty well in a gas station restroom at the edge of town, but there's no mistaking the sheer amount of shit he looks. He needs an ice pack or twelve, and sleep, and his bruised body is screaming as much at him, in the same sort of way Sam is likely to with words the very second he lays eyes on his big brother. So more than anything else, he needs to delay that as long as possible.

Dean drops his gaze to the keys in his trembling hand, finds the truth slipping away from the grasp of his lips. They've all taken too many hits as it is, and he can take this one for the team, can bear the brunt of these few last strikes on his own. "Need to use a few things out in the shop, if it's okay." He's hoarse, and that in itself should be enough to give him away.

But Bobby doesn't pry, only nods. "Of course. Mind if I ask why?"

Dean throws an unguarded glance over his shoulder, out toward his wounded baby. "We left her there, and they, uh…I'm guessing it was Meg, or some other asshole we didn't see." It should maybe be cause for concern, how easily the lie comes.

"Dean…"

This isn't one of those times Dean wants his bullshit called. He raises his eyes to meet Bobby's, and the man might not know the specifics, but enough to know when Dean's lying, and even more to know when to stop asking questions.

Bobby sighs with a heavy dose of frustrated resignation that's music to Dean's ears. "Whatever you need, Dean. S'yours."

Dean wipes a weary hand across his face, wincing as his fingers find bruises old and new. "Thanks, Bobby." He turns, pulling open the screened door. He pauses on the threshold, doesn't know at all how to make his next words sound like anything but an afterthought. "Let Sam know I'm back, will ya?"

* * *

As he's done before – and if the last few horrible months are any indication, will have the opportunity to do again – Dean takes advantage of this pocket of time devoted to mutual mourning and self-flagellation to steal away to the otherwise unoccupied confines of the garage, to allow his injured body the time to rebound away from the scrutiny of well-meaning little brothers and give the Impala a thorough tune-up and once-over after the obviously necessary repairs have been made.

Sam spends most of his time in the house, presumably talking Bobby's ear off with feelings spewed at the rate and volume of a swiped fire hydrant and dusting surfaces that haven't been cleaned since their last post-death extended stay in Sioux Falls.

Dean's quick to bring a mouthful of whiskey to his lips, in hopes of rinsing that morbid thought from his mind. The long sip empties his glass, and he moves swiftly to refill it from the half-shot bottle lying in wait near his feet.

His brother wanders out to the garage every now and then to perch silently in a corner for the amount of time it takes to drink a cup of coffee, but they've been through these motions enough times now that Sammy understands when he's wanted and when he's not.

But he's still Sam, and that means that he'll be the one to ultimately decide for the both of them when enough's enough.

It's a tangible change in the air on the morning he's made this decision. Even though Sam's hovering a bit too deliberately across the garage, he's still being so obvious in his intent to not interrupt or otherwise pester Dean, it physically hurts, the pain picking up the slack for his many healing bruises.

He's going to have to cave and give Sammy something, and sooner rather than later. He's still wearing faint marks and carrying evidence from his confrontation in Carthage, and little brother can only be held at bay by virtue of manners and threats and empty cups of coffee for so long. Stubbornness isn't a one-Winchester kind of a trait.

Dean sighs, pointlessly wiping his hands on a shop towel. The grease is just one of many stains that he can't seem to get out. "Sam."

Sam straightens from the wall, where he's been propped awkwardly in a too-narrow space between all manner of hanging tools he couldn't be pressed to identify. "Hmm?"

"Stop being weird."

"Sorry." Sam steps forward quickly, stumbles over a rusted coffee can filled with random nails and noisily spills a good deal of the contents across the oil-stained cement. He winces and stoops immediately to shovel the twisted mess of metal back into the can. "The car looks great."

Dean grabs his bottle and moves somewhat stiffly to the workbench, sticks a hip against the rough wooden edge and squints down at his brother while he continues to work out the grease from the creases in his fingers. "Thought I said stop being weird."

"Yeah. I'm just saying it looks good." Sam sets the coffee can aside and straightens, rubbing rusty residue from his palms. His eyes narrow. "And it has for a few days. It's kinda starting to feel like you're out here just because you don't want to be anywhere else."

So, yeah, Sam left the sugar in the house this morning. "Where else would I be, Sam?"

"Well, we got a call."

Dean raises his eyes, takes note of the cell phone suddenly in his brother's hand and swaps the shop towel for his glass of whiskey. Freakin' Sam and his props. Like life's just one of his geeky high school plays. "I didn't get a call."

"Okay," Sam amends. "I got a call. From Dad's friend Martin."

"Martin?" Dean racks his brain, flipping through the mental Rolodex of Dad's friends, all lost or dropped somewhere along the way. If Sammy only knew some of the fun he'd missed out on while he was tucked away safe at school.

It takes a moment, but a face floats to the front of the line. Kind eyes, but all the same wary, shifty. A hunter who'd seen too much long before he realized it for himself. And, yeah, Dean can appreciate the irony in the thought.

He's been quiet long enough to bring Sam's eyebrows worriedly worming together into the center of his face. Dean squints, steps back and braces both hands against the edge of the table. "Isn't he the one in the nuthouse, turning Popsicle sticks into birdhouses or some shit?"

Sam makes the face that means _tact, Dean_ , and sighs. "I didn't ask. But, yeah. That's him."

Dean grabs his glass and pushes away from the workbench, moves to tuck himself carefully back into the safe confines of the Impala. Ribs are still giving him a fair amount of hell, and it's not as though Sam will be able to tell if he's doing real work or just fiddling under the dash in hopes of making him go away. "What's he want?"

"A patient died in the hospital a few nights ago. Looked like it was a suicide, but Martin thinks…" Sam pauses, raises a hand at Dean's none-too-subtle eye roll. "I get it, man. But Martin's always had good instincts."

Dean tilts his head. "Not always. Remember what happened in – "

"Albuquerque, yeah, I remember. But, Dean, how many times did the guy help Dad when he needed it?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"You _know_ ," Sam insists, stepping around to Dean's side of the car. "We can do this much for him."

"I don't think so."

"Why not?"

Dean sighs, draws out of the car and sits back on his heels, bracing a hand against the wheel arch. "Because Martin's been hunting since before you learned the word 'no,' Sam, and that's saying something. If there's something there, I'm sure he can handle it."

Sam fidgets, shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. "There's more."

 _Of course there is._ Dean searches out the location of his whiskey and reaches for the glass where he'd settled it next to the Impala's front wheel. He knocks back another mouthful and lets the burn of the alcohol soak up some of the heat from his tone. "Lay it on me."

"You've been quiet."

"And?"

Sam doesn't answer, but breathes out a lengthy, weighty exhale.

The exact kind of sigh that sets Dean's teeth on edge. "Seriously, Sam, _what_?"

"Nothing. It's just…"

 _Just not NOTHING, apparently._ Dean's eyes trail the distance between his now-empty glass and the few inches of whiskey left in the bottle back on the table. He's feeling far too clear-headed for this crap, and wants the buffer for what may remain of this conversation, but there's no way to make it look like a fluid, natural motion. _Son of a bitch._

Sam takes note of Dean's intention with the smallest twitch of his eyebrows, and something about it seems to bolster his confidence. "It's been about a week now, and this is usually about the time you start throwing shit and breaking things."

Dean looks up sharply and Sam raises his hands, actually backs up a step. _About WHAT time?_ he wants to ask, demand. But he doesn't, and he won't, because he knows. He sets his jaw. "What are you sayin,' Sam?"

"I'm saying if you're gonna snap, I'd just rather you do it in an appropriate setting."

Dean snorts. "What, like a frickin' mental hospital?"

"Like a _hunt_ , Dean."

Dean sighs and thumps a palm against the side of the car, knowing he's proving his brother's point as he does so. "Well, hey, Sam, I think you're right. We _should_ take this job and pay Martin a visit. And if – sorry, _when_ – I DO snap, I'll already be well within reach of a padded room."

Sam's face wavers a long moment between wariness that he's about to be hit and concern that it'll be someone else. "That's not what I meant."

Dean knows he's also proving Sam's point as he gives up the charade and makes the move on that bottle on the table. He shakes his head as he pours. "Sam, I've still got a lot of work to do with the car, so I don't really have time to wait for you to figure out what you meant."

Sam takes it like a champ. "Yeah. I'll let Bobby know we'll be heading out, okay? In the morning?"

Dean nods tightly, plasters on a smile so wide it tugs at the scab at his temple. "Okay."

Sam moves to leave but stops, taps his fingers against the side of the garage with one foot outside and one foot in. He makes a quarter-turn, not fully facing Dean as he says, "If you do wanna talk about it, Dean, I'm here. You know that, right?"

 _Yeah, I know_. That's what Dean should say. Then, _demon kicked my ass, Sammy. You shoulda seen it._ Sam already knows; he'd have to. Not the specifics, not the demon, but that he missed _something._

 _Thanks_ , maybe, because when was the last time he said _that_?

As usual, Dean takes too long figuring out what to say, trying to find the words that lie between should and can.

Sam raps his knuckles once more against the siding of the building. "Don't stay out here too long."

"Yep." Dean swallows roughly, and turns his back on his brother, now resigned to keep this burden to himself. "See ya later, Sam."

* * *

 _And that's the sudden stop at this end._

 _Shout out to Nova42, the patron saint of Getting Chrissie Out Of Fic Jams. This is another story that would still be only 50-75% complete without her ability to resuscitate stalling fics with a single idea by saying, "Hey, stop being a baby and put these words where I say."_


End file.
